


First Christmas

by Nehszriah



Series: The Teacher, the Media Man, and the President of the United States [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas fic, F/M, Fluff, Prompt Fic, contains a random nod to Metalocalypse, gratuitous Malcolm being a softie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5299118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm doesn't believe in Christmas, but he's willing to humor his new wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Christmas

One of the challenges of the Christmas season was inevitably the contrast between expectation and reality. A healthy coating of snow on the ground was incredibly Dickensian, something only found if one traveled to skiing resorts for holiday and definitely not in London Town. It was rainy, wet, and by all means far from magical. One could see their breath, but that was the closest most got while keeping foot within the British Isles.

Another problem was definitely the magic of the season. To men like Malcolm Tucker, it was all a bunch of fucking crock. He had long-ago given up hopes in there being a God, let alone a Savior whose birth ushered in a new age, which meant that for the most part, his gift-giving and cheer-spreading was severely limited. Working with the cunts he did, day in and day out, meant that he was naturally jaded towards the idea and there was nothing wrong with that. It only made him a realist, awake, and that was what mattered most.

Except, this year, he had one Clara Oswald to deal with as well. She’d been in his life for a couple years now, and she’d kindly backed off on the very idea pf Christmas, but now she had his ring on her finger and was his only source of warmth in the cold, bleak hours of the night, provided he actually made it home. It was a personal, private matter to her, believing in a higher being, so she never made a big deal out of it when it came to anyone, but this year things were slightly different.

“Think of it as the effigy of a tree corpse, brightly decorated to mock its death,” she reasoned. He was staring at the three-foot artificial monstrosity in his sitting room which was not there when he had left for work in the morning, not knowing what to say.

“…but Clara, I told you I don’t believe in all that crap,” he replied, exhausted. It had been a long day of shouting and he didn’t feel like arguing now that he was home.

“Do it for me, please?” She wrapped her arms around him, hands finding their way underneath his jacket, and looked up at him with her best doe eyes. “I don’t expect you to go to Christmas service or anything like that, but I’d like to be a normal family with a tree and decorations and exchanging gifts. Plenty of non-Christians celebrate Christmas as a major gift-giving holiday…”

“Alright; you got me there,” he exhaled in defeat. “Just don’t go overboard, yeah? Don’t need a fucking plastic Father Christmas on the doorstep or anything like that.”

“I’ll behave,” she claimed before muttering her thanks into his chest. He kissed her hair and rubbed her back—he’d do a lot of shite for her, and he was willing to make Christmas be one of said things.

Later though, as they laid in bed together, naked and smelling of sweet sex, Malcolm traced the outline of the bones along her back as he pondered the impending holiday. Most often Christmas had meant a two-week holiday where he’d go bananas with nothing to do and no one to have a shout at. Historically they were dark days, but now there was something different about them. It was going to be practice for when all the nights of forgoing condoms paid off and they’d be parents, woken up in the wee hours of the morning by even more-wee children, screeching nonsense about a brightly-dressed burglar leaving them gifts instead of nicking the television. The entire thought was insane to consider, but as long as they were trying for children, he’d be willing to try this social construct purposely meant to shame people like him. He knew that Clara wasn’t there to shame or convert or anything like that—they wouldn’t be married if that were the case—but preparing him for the years to come? Yeah… he enjoyed the thought of that.

The following two weeks, Malcolm tried to play things as normally as possible while he secretly braced himself. He complained about the lighted garland that magically seemed to string itself around his home and the cheer being hefted upon him everywhere he turned. Clara would simply smile and slide into his lap, messing his hair with one hand and grabbing hold of her property straight through his trousers. If there was anything about the lead-up to the Christmas holiday it was that the sex was great, and he was willing to have six of the fucking things a year if that’s all it was, but it wasn’t, meaning he had to make the one that was coming up count.

Eventually the day came and all the preparation he had done would finally pay off. Very early on Christmas morning, he slid out of bed, claiming he heard something slam in the back garden. Clara let her husband slip away, giving him a sleepy cheer of encouragement, which gave him the opportunity to quietly pad down the stairs to dig the hired suit out of his coat closet. He felt like a twat putting it on in the downstairs guest toilet, but the desire to see his wife’s eyes sparkle egged Malcolm on. Once he was dressed and had grabbed the package stuffed into the bottom of the suit bag, he crept back up the stairs and knocked on the door to the bedroom.

“Special delivery for the Missus Tucker,” he announced, affecting his best approximation of London English to his voice. Clara sat up in bed and stared at him, rubbing her eyes to see if she was still asleep.

“Malcolm…?” she marveled. “What on _earth_ are you doing?”

“Getting used to the seasonal trappings and mind-washings again,” he said, accent back to normal. He sat down on the edge of the bed and handed her the small package.

“You’re missing the beard,” she teased.

“I haven’t shaved in three days and I’m keeping my fucking dignity by staying away from the false ones,” he replied. “Go on… open it.”

Clara carefully slid her finger underneath the paper and released the tape that was keeping everything together. She took off the paper to find a thin, velvet box which opened up to reveal a shimmering necklace.

“Oh Malcolm, you idiot,” she gasped. “I told you I didn’t want anything big for Christmas this year…”

“I’ll keep on treating you until we’ve got another member of the family to spoil,” he said. “I’m trying hard, Clara, and I’ll continue trying for you and them.”

“I truly had no idea how giving of a man I was marrying when I turned you into Mister Oswald, now did I?” she giggled. She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, setting the box down on the nightstand so that she could pull him in close and check to see how much he was wearing underneath the hired horror. It was very little, which was a pleasant discovery as well as meant that there was little keeping her from going straight into a Christmas shag.

One year down the line, both of them knew, they’d have more reasons to celebrate. For now, they had one another and that was fine whether they believed in the season or not.


End file.
